


The Second Son

by rawr_balrog



Series: Second Sons [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Fix-It, Gen, Good Loki, Loki-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawr_balrog/pseuds/rawr_balrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki falls, he lands on a beach, on a barrier island along the Atlantic, in the United States. There, he meets Maglor, ageless, non-human, who alone has been wandering shorelines for ages beyond count. They have a lot in common: bloody histories, older brothers, second sons of fearsome kings. But even as Loki tries to build a new, small life, it becomes increasingly clear that he may not have been the only thing the void spat out on that tiny beach town.  (AU from the end of Thor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hard landing, and a helping hand.

When Loki finally landed, it was on a beach on a narrow barrier island. Ten miles in either direction and he might have drowned. As it were, he had a mouth full of sand and blood, and stars wheeled both in his eyes and overhead. Tendrils of oblivion, barely visible as they faded into unresponsive sky, curled in his hair, around his fingers, skirted along skin and up his nose. In his mind, galaxies burst and faded, leaving behind wisps of smoke like the tail end of a brilliant flare. Constellations formed and passed. The universe expanded and contracted. The tree grew and took root, rotted and passed away.

Maybe it had been the play-acting of his own dreams, madness substituting vision. Despair forming entertainment during a long, long fall. Regardless, this was not the chaotic in-between. This was not the shattered Bifrost, or his dearth of home, the desperate wreckage of a misconstrued identity. This was Midgard, the only definitively non-magical place that Loki had ever visited.

The sand underneath him was packed hard, formed into great sloping walls on every side that he could see. Not that that was much; craning his neck to look actually hurt a great deal, so for the moment he avoided doing so. He did not think about the way any movement echoed in his bones. He did not think about the alien-something floated through his veins, a souvenir from his long journey, sentient, distant and yet close. Instead he thought about the stars overhead. Tiny pinpricks compared to what he had seen, but bright and constant. The moon was invisible, either new or it had sunk already beyond his admittedly narrow patch of sky.

After a long moment, Loki braced himself, made to turn over and spit. As expected, the movement lit his nerve endings. He inhaled sharply and unintentionally, causing granules and copper to fly down his throat. The resulting coughs were white-hot and blinding, and once his vision swam back into focus, the white sand beneath his face was dotted black. He could feel it dripping down his chin, sticky and thick.

Ow.

The advantage of this situation, he allowed, during another five minutes or so prone and motionless on the cold sand, was that it gave him something to think about. Some activity to distract him. Survival was an activity; despite his previous attempt to discard it, he did not find that slowly drowning in a hole by the creeping tide was an acceptable way to go. Or maybe the impact had cleared his head. Either way, the first step was to get out of this hole.

This was easier said than done, of course, when his magic was about as painful to move as everything else. He would have no assistance from that end. Already mostly on his stomach, he pushed himself up on his forearms, scooted his knees under him, and pushed himself upright. Up on his knees, he could feel the movement of the air across the sea, salty and cold. He could also see over the lip of the crater, but getting up there… his balance was precarious enough as it was.

That problem solved itself rather more quickly than Loki expected, when at that moment a pair of thin, sandy ankles appeared in his view.

“Sir,” came the voice from above him. The accent was vaguely archaic, but not unlike his own. “Are you quite alright? There was a flash, and a great fury.”

“Great pain as well,” said Loki, swallowing blood and closing his eyes. “I would—” here he broke off, unsure, weighing pride against necessity. “I would appreciate your assistance.”

The stranger, who had bent forward, presumably in an effort to divine Loki’s features from shadow, straightened. “Of course! Let me just…” and here, he slid on his heels down the sides of the trench, skidding to an improbably graceful stop at the bottom. The stranger had light gray trousers that ended at the knee, and limbs nearly as slender as Loki’s own. Above it, a white tunic, about a mile of straight black hair, and eyes that flashed with starlight.

“Thank you,” Loki said quietly, gritting his teeth.

The stranger knelt down before him. He had a pale and pointed face, marked with a kind of slanted unreality that was difficult to place. He leaned forward and put a hand under Loki’s chin. “No, of course, it is the least I can—is that blood?” He wiped a bit away with the tip of one thumb, and frowned.

“Most likely,” he admitted. “But I have quite a bit more.” Loki shrugged.

“Yes, well,” the stranger returned, “so do I, but over the years I have learned to hoard it regardless.” He shrugged, and sat back on his heels, turning his regard to the whole of Loki’s figure. “You may call me Maglor, if you like.”

Loki smirked. He tried to snort, but it turned awkwardly into a cough. “And if I do not like?” he bit out, forcing composure back into place.

The stranger, Maglor, laughed bitterly. It sounded like bells. “Well, then, you may feel free to invent a new one. The _Valar_ know I have answered to as many names. What’s a few more?” His half-grin faded into mist, and he stood up. “Well, then, star-walker, can you stand the rest of the way?”

“Star-faller is more like it,” Loki said. “I can stand.” The last part was more force of will than any kind of medical self-assessment. Maglor seemed to intuit this, and grasped his arm firmly in support. “My name is Loki.”

He pushed himself to his feet, grimacing against the effort and the grinding of his bones. Maglor accepted a good portion of his weight, and his second arm came around his back to assist. Once upright, he was shamefully spent. He kept his eyes closed and breathed heavily. When he opened them again, the stranger was watching the stars, waiting as if he hadn’t noticed the delay. Certain people would not have been so patient.

“Well, Loki,” Maglor said at last, eyes still fixed on the stars. He broke away and met Loki’s vision as if he had been the one to keep them waiting, rather than Loki himself. “I’m glad to have met you. Though I certainly wish it had been under less dire circumstances.”

Suddenly, the incline before them seemed very, very tall. Half as high as the shattered Bifrost, as distant as the Allfather’s throne. “I do not wish,” he said slowly, after a pause. He trailed off, and the silence lingered until he admitted, “but a friendly face is, at this juncture, not unwelcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for about a hundred years. I currently have 8 out of 21 chapters complete, with the entire work outlined and a sequel vaguely sketched out. I had originally intended to finish all of it before posting, but I think that sharing some might help me work faster. This is also currently un-betaed, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> (Also, if anyone can tell me how to write chapter notes instead of story notes, I will be grateful!)


	2. The Newcomer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor brings an injured Loki home.

His carpet was stained.

Once, a very long time ago, Maglor would barely have noticed. He would have stepped past it, left it for a servant or his host or nobody at all. Once, the sound of his name had been threat enough that any offended party would be too thankful for blood still inside to be concerned with any that had fallen out. Now, though, he stared at it. Thought about cabinets full of shampoo and oxy-clean and scrub brushes, wondered if it had soaked through to the padding underneath. There was a trail of it, dotting all the way from the street outside, up the stairs to his door, across the carpet, into the bed that a stranger occupied. Where the same blood was probably staining his mattress.

Maglor shook his head and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. He was being ridiculous. For one, he had enough experience with this subject to know that, infomercial cleaning products or no, that stain was not coming out. Perhaps, given the nature of the damage, his landlord would be forgiving. Moreover, the individual in the next room…

It had been _yéni_ 1 since he had felt such a thing. It had been more than a storm. He had called it a “fury,” and rightfully so. Not so much electric as a rushing, like flying and falling and horribly infinite possibility, and it sang to him like the world’s song he could, some days, barely remember. When the world was sundered, so too had been _Makalaurë,_ 2 deafened like the mayfly lives around him to the melody that creates the world. And there it was.3

Whomever he was, Loki, this star-faller with a name straight from the legends of Men, he represented to Maglor the most terrible, awful sort of hope. He didn’t allow himself to articulate it. Words formed and spoken had power, and this thrill of mercy was an impossibility he couldn’t afford.

Maglor had been watching the stars over the coal-black sea, not quite imagining the star that even now laid beneath it. This wandering habit he could never quite break. For now, at least, he had put down roots, and limited his wandering to a stretch of shore with direct proximity to a specific town. Sleep did not come easily to him, and so on that night as many others he had spent waiting for the sun to crest over the waves. And it was a good thing he had been there (wasn’t it?) for all of a sudden there was a blinding, flickering light, and an inundating roar of wind, and then a fantastic crash and sand scattered every which way. And, for one glorious instant, the song.

By the time he reached the crater, the stranger inside had climbed to his knees, somehow managing not to buckle under the residual agony of impact.

Maglor ended up bringing him back to his apartment and giving up his bed, not that he used it regularly, insomnia being a close and personal friend. It had been so easy. He, who had spent centuries breaking ties had invited a new one. But magic had been gone for so long from this world, and this newcomer? He had it.

It was past four A.M. by the time Maglor managed to doze off where he was, sprawled across his dilapidated couch. He dreamed of nothing, of the quiet of a sleeping house, of a dark forge, and two shining trees.

When he blinked back into hazy awareness, dawn was creeping in through the shuttered windows.

A shuffling, and a dull thud. He frowned, and sat up, running long fingers through mussed hair. “Uh,” still half asleep, it took him a second to remember the name. “Loki?” His silhouette, hunched and hesitant, appeared in the doorway. “Do you require assistance?” He reached out, fumbled under the lampshade for the switch. Two clicks, and it flooded the room with amber.

Loki blinked against the dull light. The lamp tossed shadows across his face, emphasizing his wan pallor. “No,” he said hoarsely. “Just water.” He rubbed his face with both hands.

“Alright,” said Maglor, getting to his feet. He indicated the couch behind him. “But you should sit down.”

Loki just stared at him, expression unreadable. “Why?”

“Because.” Maglor had to step around Loki to get into the narrow kitchen. “You hit the ground rather hard. And you bled all over my carpet, threadbare though it is.” He reached up into the high cabinet next to the stove and retrieved a thick glass tumbler, and then pulled the Brita pitcher from the refrigerator. He eyed Loki meaningfully as he poured.

The newcomer’s attention, however, was fixed on the living room carpet rather than on his host. He extended a hand toward it, leading with his fore and middle fingers, before pausing, balling a fist, and returning the hand to his side. “Later,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He rounded his shoulders, shuffling with literal and figurative ill grace over to the worn sofa, where he perched carefully on the very edge.

Maglor followed him and sat down all the way at the other end, handing him the water as he passed. He turned to face Loki, crossing his legs underneath him. Loki took two long, leisurely sips, watching Maglor in his peripheral vision. Finally, he set the glass down on the side table, and placed his long hands on each knee.

“Thank you.” He said it quickly, on a breath, like someone unused to the shame of gratitude.

Maglor waved it off as casually as he was able. “It was nothing.”

“I will be on my way once I can… restore your carpeting.” His mouth twisted into a wry frown. “I shall not trespass on your good will.”

“You are not trespassing.”

At this, the stranger smirked. “I bled on your carpet and am taking up your bed.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “You fell from the sky.”

“That I did,” he said quietly, on a breath. He fell into silence and his eyes darted about the room. “You have not lived here long,” he stated. It was not quite a question.

“How could you tell?”

“The decor is not yours.” He tilted his head, and then amended, “or, it does not seem like it.”

Maglor shifted. He reached behind him and beat the throw pillow into submission, and then leaned back into a more relaxed position. His companion noted it, but did not move to do the same. “It came with the apartment,” he explained. “Mostly it is rented by vacationers, and so it is the type that can take a beating.”

“And are you a vacationer?” His posture relaxed a bit. He leaned back into the sofa with a grimace; possibly his tension and formality had agitated his ill-used bones. Maglor pretended not to notice.

“I relocate frequently,” he admitted vaguely. “So no, and yes.”

Loki picked up the glass again, swirled a fingertip in it idly, and pursed his lips. After a few moments, he took another sip. “Is it because you are not human?” There was a hint of something, when he put the question out there, right at the corners of his eyes and mouth, wicked sharp. Maglor had to concede his nerve, asking flat-out what it had taken others months of hesitation and internal conflict to work up to.

Then again, he had quite literally fallen from the heavens, so perhaps it wasn’t so absurd to him. Mostly out of force of habit, Maglor responded, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It sounded petty and contrived, even to his own ears.

Loki barked a laugh at that one. “Oh, come now, a creature of _seiðr_ such as yourself? Your blood reeks of it. It is so obvious.”

Maglor blinked. He tried to ignore the faint, fluttering sensation in his chest. He reached up self consciously, and ran his finger along the tip of one pointed ear. “Does it really?” he managed weakly. “I mean, I suppose it would, if I have not lost so much after all…”

Loki leveled him with a questioning gaze, but he did not elaborate, and his new friend did not push. Rather, he watched him carefully, as if gleaning the explanation from Maglor’s own person. Eventually, as if satisfied, he broke away and returned to studying his surroundings.

“You should go back to bed,” said Maglor. Loki frowned questioningly. “I just meant, we have another couple hours before any of the decent breakfast places open, and you are unwell.”

Loki gifted him with the barest hint of a polite, if unreadable smile. “Very well,” he said, rising stiffly and with some effort. He failed to mask entirely the grimace and hiss of pain that accompanied the movement, and the strain echoed in his voice. “I will get out of your way. I shall see you when the sun is higher in the sky.” He picked up the glass, drained it, and shuffled toward the kitchen sink. “Thank you for the water, and the company.”

Maglor did not respond. He simply watched him place the glass down, remove himself to the bedroom, and watched the door click shut behind him. Then he returned to his previous position, reclining on the sofa, and contemplated the ceiling until it faded away.

 

* * *

 

1 _yéni_ : An Elvish unit of time measurement, singular "yén," equivalent to 144 years.

2 _Makalaurë_ : Maglor's name in its original Quenya.

3 _"When the world was sundered, so too had been Makalaurë, deafened like the mayfly lives around him to the melody that creates the world.":_ In _The Silmarillion,_ the creation of the world occurred in the form of a song, written or revealed by Eru Ilúvatar to the Valar, who sang it in chorus. Evil came into the world when Melkor intentionally sang dissonant notes in the chorus, but it is unclear whether this was an act of rebellion or followed Ilúvatar's vision all along. This story interprets both "the song" and "the world tree" as practical interpretations of a more intangible magical reality, two different ways to say the same thing.

As for "sundering," the departure of the Elves from Middle Earth after Return of the King is sometimes thought to symbolize a greater departure of magic from the world, leaving behind the unmagical, scientific world that humanity inherited from the older races. After the Elves left, the way was closed and the Undying Lands forever removed from the rest of the mortal world.


	3. Breakfast And An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Loki get an early breakfast, and an agreement is made.

They rose early. Between Loki’s own inclinations, his host’s apparent insomnia, and Loki’s state of injury, which was distracting and made rest difficult, there was really no other option. So once the sun had left the horizon behind, he gave up pretense and dragged himself from the sagging mattress. The bedroom he had been placed in, presumably his host’s, was spartan and well-worn. There was a heavy wooden dresser in the corner and faded wallpaper above dark wooden panels covering the lower half of the wall. It was neat, though it all had the sterile air of second-hand transience. The sheets, he noticed, were spotted with dry blood. As all of Loki’s magical faculties were at that point occupied maintaining his basic functions, he resolved with chagrin to mend them at another time.

When Loki finally emerged into the rest of the living area, Maglor was already awake. He was perched on a stool on the opposite side of the kitchen counter, long black hair falling loose around his shoulders, idly dunking a bag of cheap tea into a chipped mug. Loki snorted, and before he could stop himself, said “you are not actually going to drink that, are you?” He probably should have been more polite, but Loki had never exactly been a patient patient. Recovery had always brought out the worst side of him, and it seemed his exile on Midgard was to be no different.

Nevertheless, Maglor responded in kind with a self deprecating grimace. “It was the best I could find,” he said with a shrug, indicating the box on the counter. “Unfortunately.” He punctuated this statement by tipping his head back and taking a long swig. He made a face. “Are you out of bed for the day?” Loki nodded, and he hopped lightly off of his stool. “Good; let me get you some clothing. The bathroom is in the hall.” He skirted around Loki and back into the bedroom and efficiently producing a gray cotton shirt and loose denim trousers. He handed them over and then indicated a closed door directly across from the bedroom.

Loki accepted the bundle and made his way over to the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, his host called after him. “I apologize; I am not supplied for guests. Make use of whatever you find, and we can purchase some things for you later.”

The bathroom itself was small and windowless. The light, three electric bulbs over the sink and mirror, lit via a switch beside the door, though the illumination did little to improve it. The shower was a stall narrow enough for a single person, rather than a proper tub, leaving just enough room for the toilet and sink, though the wall was so close that he would have to stand aside to open the cabinet beneath.

It was meager, he decided immediately. Then again, Loki, who had nothing but himself and was, for the moment, at his host’s mercy, was in no position to cast judgment. And judging by the mirror, he barely even had that. Loki had taken care of the most severe of his injuries with the last of his own power the previous night, his ribs, spine, head, and punctured lung chief among those. He could do nothing about the widespread bruising, the ashen cast and the exhaustion the strain left behind, or the echoes of trauma he felt in all of his joints. Time, Eir had always said, was occasionally a better healer than she was.

Slowly and painfully, he divested himself of his armor, and after a moment or two of consideration, he was able to turn on the shower. The temperature was somewhat fickle, but more comfortable than the blood crusting on his scalp, and the steam helped to ease his atrophying muscles. Still, his range of motion limited, the whole process took far longer than he’d have liked, and he barely managed to get out before his fingers started to prune.

He quickly dried himself and pulled on the borrowed clothing—appropriately plain, unadorned, and unassuming; if he could not be armored he could at least be invisible—and rinsed his mouth out with water from the tap.

Maglor was thumbing through a worn paperback novel when he came out, dressed in a black collared shirt and pants similar to Loki’s borrowed ones, pale toes sticking out of thonged sandals. When he saw him, he brightened and stood, proffering a worn out pair of canvas shoes.

“They’re probably too big,” he said, “but here.” He tossed them over. There was a balled up pair of socks inside the left one. Loki pulled them on and nodded before standing up again. “Good, I hope you are well enough to walk.” He skipped across the room and snatched up a set of keys, which jingled as he shoved them in his pocket, and then led Loki out the door, pausing to secure it, and then down the wooden stairs.

As it turned out, Maglor’s favorite breakfast could be found about a mile and a half away from his home, on the outskirts of a small beach town. It was a dilapidated, free-standing storefront, with wide, flat windows and particleboard tables that were bolted to the floor. The windows looked out on a highway, across which grew some tall, dry reeds and grasses, and beyond it, the gray, glinting sea. The painted sign affixed to the roof read “Maggie’s Eat-In Diner,” in colorful, friendly letters. Inside, the tables were mostly empty, older patrons hunched over the counter and shadowy corner booths.

He followed Maglor in. A chain of bells clattered as the door drifted shut behind them, but his companion ignored it, turning straight into a booth beside the center window. Loki settled gingerly across from him, making sure not to wince as the plastic seat aggravated his complaining joints. The walk, all asphalt and gravel and sand, had been unforgiving. All the same, it had been less than two miles. If his brother were here, he would give him no end of grief over the state of his endurance.

Two plastic menus were shoved in between the bottles and the paper napkin holder at the end of the table. He selected one and opened it slowly. It all seemed to Loki like standard fare for a working class establishment, but what did he know? Substandard though it likely was, it wouldn’t do to offend the one upon whose good graces Loki was resting. After a long few minutes of consideration, he closed the menu and regarded Maglor. “What do you recommend?”

Maglor shrugged, and with two slender digits pushed his hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “I like the huevos rancheros, and the eggs florentine, but if your fare is anything like the culture from which your legend originates…” He let the sentence drop as he caught the eye of a staff member.

Loki’s eyes flicked down the menu to read the descriptions. “Florentine is fine,” he agreed softly. Loki returned his menu to its place and crossed his arms tight across his unarmored chest.

Their server approached. She was an older, heavyset woman who wore her years around her mouth, jowls and hair, and smelled faintly of stale tobacco. She had a pad of paper and pencil in one hand, and her other was occupied by a pot of black coffee. “Hello, darling,” she addressed Maglor as she poured. “A visitor this week? That’s unusual.”

“A good friend from out of town,” he said. “In need of a place to stay.”

“Well, any friend of yours,” she said with a rather obvious wink. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Loki.” He bowed his head politely and pasted on his most friendly expression. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you…”

The waitress put the coffee down on the table with a ‘thunk,’ and grabbed the pencil out of her other hand and twirled it around weathered fingers. “Darla,” she said. “And if you’re hanging out with Maglor, we’ll be seeing quite a lot of one another.”

“I look forward to it,” Loki said.

“We will both have eggs florentine,” Maglor cut in gracefully, with a smile. His eyes flickered to Loki, and then back to Darla. “And the potatoes, I think.”

Darla didn’t bother writing any of it down, despite her possession of a pencil and paper. “Leave the coffee?” she said. She had an expression like she had discovered a secret. Loki narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” said Maglor, politely dismissive. The serving woman disappeared into the kitchen, smug expression intact, and left silence trailing in her wake.

Loki studied the false grain of the table, tracing it idly with one finger and tried to listen for her in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the clatter of cutlery and dull chatter of patrons were enough to mask whatever conversation. He swallowed his frustration. “You come here weekly,” he stated, raising his vision to meet his friend’s face. “What do you like about it?”

“More than, sometimes,” he admitted. “It is quiet. The other establishments attract tourists with screaming children. And these people assisted me when I first arrived.”

“I see.” He clasped both hands around his mug. Maglor did the same, and conversation dwindled until his mug was more than half finished and plates were being deposited in front of them, poached eggs on a biscuit and a pile of spinach, with a white sauce.

“How did they help you?” he said eventually, staring out the window at the faintly shining line of water across the road.

“They put me in contact with my landlady.” He paused to chew and swallow. “And assisted me in finding employment.”

Loki nibbled at a potato. It was too greasy, but not substantially different from the way the kitchens would have prepared it. “I see,” he said slowly, considering. “That was kind of them.”

“It was,” he agreed, reaching for his coffee. He frowned and turned his gaze inward before spitting out, “but you don’t have to.”

“I’m sorry?” Loki blinked. He paused, a forkful of eggs and spinach hanging in the air.

“I mean, you can stay.” Maglor seemed to have lost all of his previous skill with elocution. Based on his flushed pallor, he also seemed to be aware of this. “You require employment, if you wish to stay here, anywhere really, but I have an extra room.”

Loki blinked. “If you have an extra room, why was I in your bed, and you on the couch?”

Maglor laughed and his redness abated slightly. “Well, it is not currently fit to _live_ in. As I said, I am not adequately prepared for guests.” Here, they lapsed into pensive silence, broken only by utensils against plates. Loki had finished his potatoes and most of the eggs by the time his companion spoke again. “My motives are not entirely selfless,” he admitted. “I would not object to the company.”

“I see.” Loki reached for the pitcher and refilled both of their mugs. He returned it to the end of the table and grasped his mug, inhaling the rising steam. “Well, then,” he said, punctuating his speech with an artfully careless sip of black coffee. “I thank you for the offer. It is not as if I have anywhere else to go.”

“That is what I thought,” said Maglor, and reached for his mug as well.


	4. Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Loki move him in properly, and bond over the surprising amount they have in common.

Loki and Maglor stood at the foot of the wooden stairs, staring up at the metal storm door.

“So how exactly did they accomplish this previously?” said Loki. The mattress between them leaned dismally in the gray light, as if bemoaning its inevitable future as a rain collector. Loki understood the sentiment. Any other time, he could have accomplished such a task with relative ease, but the current use of his magic was as a limb wrapped in plaster, and the rest of him did not feel much better.

How the mighty had fallen.

“You know, I am not quite sure,” said Maglor brightly. “But I feel like it was quite a bit easier than this will be.”

Loki sighed. “It is astounding how often I have had that thought, recently.” As if in agreement, the moisture in the air grew slightly heavier.

Maglor knelt to lift his end. “All the same, we had probably better finish this, unless you prefer your mattresses damp and musty. Do you want to go forward or backward?”

Loki knelt and wedged his hands under his end, and then sort of juggled it into a better grip. They stood together. “Forward, I think. You know your home better than I do.”

“Are you well enough to bear the weight, then? You will have most of it.”

Loki snorted. “A small injury? I am not so frail as all that. Go on, then.” He shifted his grip and used the burden between them to nudge Maglor onward.

“Very well,” he said, sounding very put-upon. He swung around, craning his neck over his shoulder, and started slowly up the stairs, careful to keep an adequate amount of weight in his own arms. Somewhere over the sea just beyond their vision, there came a dull crack of thunder.

Despite his dismissive words, Loki was forced to admit at least to himself that the process was actually quite painful. The stress on his upper body aggravated his back and healing ribs, not to mention his already sore joints. He gritted his teeth when the load suddenly increased.

“Just a moment while I get the door open,” Maglor called apologetically. He was still hoisting it with one arm, but the other was fiddling with the lock.

Loki huffed and renegotiated the weight in his arms. “Should we not have unlocked the door before doing this?”

“Most likely,” said Maglor. The door popped open, and he cheered victoriously before retaking his share of the weight. “You are going to have to lift it up in order to get past the banister while we turn.” There was another more distinct roll of thunder.

“Yes, thank you,” Loki snarked. “Would you go already?”

Maglor obliged without comment, wedging himself through the door as far as their awkward burden would allow. Loki gritted his teeth and lifted it over his head, allowing better maneuverability further inside the apartment. He finally managed to get inside himself just as three fat raindrops hit his scalp.

Once out of the entryway, he dropped his end unceremoniously and rolled his neck and shoulders, and grimaced as they cracked audibly. On the other end, Maglor had done the same, and was flexing his wrists and fingers. The room behind him was entirely in shadow, the weak light from the cloudy sky unable to penetrate the gloom of the approaching evening. “Shall we finish this?” said Maglor, his voice straining as he stretched his shoulders.

They bent and lifted it again. Loki’s new bedroom was beside the bathroom, catty-corner to Maglor’s own. As such, between the tight turn, the narrow hall and the close kitchen counter, it was extraordinarily difficult to get into. With considerable ingenuity, they managed to get it through the doorway and securely onto the waiting bed frame.

It was the last major piece to his settling here. The dresser and desk had already been present before Loki’s unceremonious arrival, but in the days since their agreement had been hatched over breakfast, he had made progress in the acquisition of a few necessary possessions. Maglor had insisted on continuing on the couch in the waiting area in the interim. Now that Loki had his own chamber, he could stop pretending not to notice Maglor’s stiff neck and shoulders.

After another roll of his shoulders and wrists, Loki let himself collapse atop the unmade bed. Maglor did the same beside him, his long hair spilling into Loki’s space.

“Well, now you are not permitted to leave,” said Maglor, to his left and above him. Loki turned his head and found himself staring Maglor straight in the ribs.

“Is that so?” he responded, returning his gaze to the ceiling. There was a fine cobweb in the corner, and a hairline crack spidering across the white surface. There was a tiny, dingy window on the wall behind him, beaten with rain.

“Not after hauling your bed in here.”

“I do imagine it would have been considerably more difficult to do alone, yes.” Loki snickered, more of an exhale than a laugh, and shifted. “I have considerably more respect for the Allfather’s servants now, however. I was not responsible for such mundane tasks. I fear they were much more efficient than me.”

Maglor laughed. “Yes, probably. It is only millennia of practice that have caught me up, and even then more often than not I do without. I think my father spoiled me, though at the time I never gave him the credit.”

Loki frowned and craned his neck to look at his face. “How old are you?”

Maglor laughed and lifted his head to look down at him. “Older than you, friend.” He laid back and covered his eyes with one slender hand. “Centuries beyond count. Literally. Do you know that Men do not even count the years of my history? It is as if we never existed.” This did not seem to require a response, so Loki remained silent, and waited for Maglor to break the silence again. During the break, the only sound between them was the creak of a second-hand box spring, and air moving through lungs. When he did speak, his tone was bitter, like regret but sweetened by years of resignation. “We knew the path would be closed, but I never imagined it would be so completely.”

“And now we are here,” said Loki.

Maglor made an affirmative noise. “And now we are here.”

Loki breathed deeply. The room smelled of dust and neglect, nothing that could not be remedied by inhabitance. “If my path home has been shattered,” he admitted, “I probably delivered the final blow myself. But it was the final in a long and treacherous series.”

“Do you regret it?” This was said lightly, though Loki suspected it disguised a terrible weight.

He frowned, and turned the question over. “Certainly regret is present, though attributing it proves difficult.” He stopped, and snorted. “Though certainly I do not regret all of it.”

Maglor laughed and rolled onto his side, propping his head up by one elbow and looking down at him. “What did you do?”

“I proved my brother’s idiocy beyond contest,” he said bitterly. “Though in the end, I was proven the biggest fool of all of them.” He sighed and rolled onto his stomach to face Maglor before clarifying. “I engineered a minor invasion of our realm’s most monstrous enemies concurrently with his long-awaited coronation. Really it was for their own good, you see; he would have been an awful king.” Loki sneered. “As it turns out, I was only proving my own _monstrous_ nature. My so-called father’s explanation was… lacking.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows, but otherwise withheld his reaction. “And so you fled here?”

Ah, no.” Loki admitted lightly, maintaining his wicked grin. “There may also have been a small incident of genocide. As I said the final blow was my own.” He paused, considering. “I’m not very sorry for that, actually.”

Maglor sighed heavily. “Well, as they say, I am hardly the one to throw stones on that count.” He returned Loki’s sharp smile. “We are a bloody pair, you and I. I once had six brothers and one terribly charismatic father. For him we swore a binding oath against heaven. Then he perished, and the _Ambarussa_ 1, and left we five to finish the job on our own. We led our people to doom. They led themselves right back out of it, and I am still here. All that effort, wasted. I should have just stayed home.”

“And your brothers?”

His expression faltered, but only slightly. “I was second to Maedhros, and he was the last of them alive. He had inherited all the best parts of my father, and he was _noble_ , too.” That last part was said somewhat bitterly. He shook his head before continuing. “When we finally reclaimed our father’s jewels, we were unable to behold them without injury. Our own monstrous nature, I suppose. He cast himself and his prize into a volcano. I cast my silmaril into the sea and have wandered ever since.”

There was a rush of rain against the window, and the dull roll of thunder. Loki breathed through his nose, reaching out with mental fingers for the familiar tang of static. Then he sat up, and turned to regard Maglor, who had returned to his back, eyes closed, sprawled across the bare mattress. “Well, my friend,” Loki said. Maglor’s eyes blinked open. “Is it your turn to cook, or mine?”

Maglor stared at him, bright eyes caught between twin impulses to narrow and widen. Then he eased, and rocked lightly to his feet. “Yours, my friend. I believe it is your night.” 

* * *

1 _Ambarussa:_ Maglor's youngest twin brothers. In Elven culture, a child is given two names: a father-name and a mother-name. The father-name is generally used publicly, until such a time that the Elf grows up, and his or her fame or deeds merit a new title or nickname. The mother-name is usually only used privately, with friends and family, and is significant because mothers typically have insight into the talents, strengths and fate of their children when choosing the name. Unusually, all but one of the sons of Fëanor (including Maglor) prefer using their mother-name publicly.

When the twins were born, she assigned both of them the name "Ambarussa." At Fëanor's protest, she changed one of them to "Ambarussa Umbarto," or "Ambarto." They are more commonly referred to as Amrod and Amras, but both answered to Ambarussa, and Maglor is more likely to have used that. In one version, Amras was accidentally burned alive when his father ordered their ships set alight (fanon says he was trying to sneak back home). In the other, he survived the burning ships and both he and his twin were killed in the kinslaying at the Mouths of Sirion.


	5. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little over a month has passed, and Loki has begun to settle into his new, comparatively smaller life. A strangely brutal system of storms has recently congregated overhead. All the meteorologists can seem to tell is that it is not a hurricane, but Loki may have other suspicions.

Hannah had parked herself at one of the four small cafe tables by the window, a thick paperback from a nearby shelf propped open in front of her. On the other side of the shop, leaning against the register counter, Loki raised an eyebrow and glared at her.

“What?” she said, punctuating the statement by snapping her gum. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna come. I have a book report.”

Sighing, Loki had to concede her point. The weather that week had grown exceptionally dismal, alternating between oppressive humidity and cold torrents of rain that did little to relieve it. It was not the kind of day that lent itself well to business. Not that the bookstore was exceptionally hectic on the best days. Loki had reason to believe that as the year grew warmer and the days longer, this may change, but as he had only been working here for about a month, he had noting upon which to base this assumption other than instinct and second-hand observations. Today, there had only been one visitor: a nondescript, balding middle-aged business looking individual who had spent the last hour and a half lingering by the nonfiction history. If he thought he was going to wait out the rain, he probably had another thing coming.

“What are you reading?” Loki asked Hannah, for lack of any better conversation. His voice had grown slow and lazy with the weather, and he had spent the last ten minutes watching torrents of water streak the broad window.

“ _Treasure Island_ ,” she said. Hannah clucked her tongue and leaned back in her seat dramatically. “A big waste of time. It’s pretty much exactly the same as _Muppet Treasure Island_. I should have just rented that.”

After a moment, he dragged his vision away from the rain and offered her a wry half-grin. “But then what would you do with your shift?”

She shrugged. “There’s a new Sudoku under the pencil drawer.”

“Oh, really?” Loki perked, and immediately knelt to retrieve it. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because you’d finish it first, and then what would I do with my time?”

“Your homework?” He snatched up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers.

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes and then returned to her novel. Hannah had been working at the shop for about four months longer than Loki had. She was a student at the local high school, and picked up shifts after class and on the weekends. She had long, curly hair that currently hung loose from an elastic headband, a duskier shade of blonde than his mother’s, or rather, the queen’s had been.

The job had been Maglor’s handiwork. He had only recently left his winter employment behind to return to the spring-through-autumn produce truck, and the Steve, the driver of the truck was married owner of the shop, Margot Tate. Margot’s adult son having recently left the area and herself beginning to get on in years, she had found herself in need of extra hands, and her husband was too busy to do it himself. “A job will help you blend in,” Maglor had said. “Ingratiate you to the neighbors.” Well, sod the neighbors. The work was dull and mindless. If Loki grew any more bored, he would begin lighting things on fire.

It being early in the week, the sudoku puzzle was rather simple, so it wasn’t long before Loki had finished it and moved on to the rather more challenging cryptoquote. Silence descended like a pall over the shop, broken only by irregular torrents of rain and by Hannah fidgeting in her chair. Actually—he paused, pencil hovering over the paper—wasn’t this the same Benjamin Franklin quote as it had been two and a half weeks ago? Did humans have so little of note to say that they had to recycle, or was somebody at the newspaper just lazy? He sighed irritably and dropped the whole paper in the recycling bin.

“Today is boring.”

Hannah scoffed. “Don’t tell me that.” She sighed and then snapped her book shut and dropped it on the table in front of her. “Is your cute friend coming?”

“The rain is torrential and he has a job. Why would he?”

She snapped her gum between her teeth. “Nobody else is going to.”

Loki’s eyes flicked to the gentleman in the back corner. His thinning hair was just visible over the top of the shelves. He glanced up at the clock, and then heaved a sigh and stretched his arms over his head. “I’m going back to make coffee. I will return in fifteen minutes.”

She pushed off the table to her feet and ambled over to the register to take his place. “Fine, fine. Can you bring me some?”

“Six hundred sugar packets?” He raised an eyebrow, not that she could see it, because he was already walking away.

“Try four, jerk.”

He waved in acknowledgment and made his way back to the office-slash-break room. Mr. Business Man glanced up from his tome as he passed.

 

The shop coffee maker was a twelve dollar percolator that didn’t compare in any way to the chem-ex that Maglor insisted upon using at home. The quality of its output was only moderately improved by the addition of fresh beans and an electric grinder, but Loki still found himself heaping extra scoops into the filter to compensate. This was probably why his coworkers overloaded on sugar in his presence, but Loki didn’t let that bother him. He was not about to lower his standards to accommodate poor taste.

In a fortunate coincidence of timing, Loki’s phone chose that moment to buzz. He flipped the speaker on and absently tossed the phone onto the table. “Hello, Maglor,” he said.

There was a lot of noise on the other end, but it was slowly fading as Maglor moved away from it. “What are you doing?” he said.

“Waiting for coffee to brew. I’m on break. Why?”

“We’re packing up, because the wind is too strong. Any chance of closing up shop early?”

Loki sighed and then made himself comfortable in the desk chair on the other side of the room. “Not particularly. There’s someone here and I don’t think he’s leaving any time soon.”

There was a shuffling on the other end, and a sound like a door. “I’ll get dinner, then. I’ll be home anyway. The weather is growing too violent for us to do much other than sit in the back of the truck. Do you like kale?”

Loki blinked. “Um.”

“It’ll go off before we can sell it, so I’m bringing some home.”

Dimly, thunder pealed through the walls and ceiling, and the atmosphere grew dense. Loki pressed his lips together, and then exhaled sharply. “No, don’t bother. I’ll be late anyway.”

On the other end, Maglor emitted a sound of disbelief. “What, are you taking up storm-chasing now?”

He looked up to the drop ceiling, as if he could see through it to the darkening sky. “I should walk Hannah home.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by a peal of thunder and a rush of static over their connection. “Why don’t I meet you, then?” said Maglor, raising his voice to compete with the noise. “I’ll meet you at the store.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He laughed. “I have to make sure you don’t float away. I’d have to find a new roommate.”

Loki frowned. “Have it your way. She was asking about you anyway.”

“Save me some coffee. I’ll be there soon, if I’m not carried into the sea.”

The call disconnected, and Loki pocketed his cell phone. It was still another minute and a half before the coffee would be done: one cream and four sugars for Hannah, black for himself, and the remains of the pot into a paper travel mug for Maglor, when he arrived. Outside the office, Hannah had absconded to her table with the sudoku book, the man in the suit was still lurking in the history section, and the rain still beat in torrents against the window pane.


	6. Watchers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Loki walk Hannah home. If they don't get swept away by gale force winds before they get there, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I nearly forgot to post today.

When Maglor arrived, his hair shone like wet ink, and the strands all clumped together, dripping down his back. His posture was round, his clothes saturated, and he had a worn knapsack slung over his shoulder. The wind buffeted the door when he entered. He closed it only with some effort, and then dropped the knapsack at his feet (it landed lightly, barely making a sound) and leaned back against the door.

 _“That,”_ he said, eyes closed, head resting on the wood behind him, “was a battle worthy of song.”

“Do they do that nowadays?” said Loki with a wry grin. He was, unlike Maglor, warm and dry. “Sing about great and violent deeds?”

“No,” said Maglor. “That tradition is gone with all the other old ways, I’m afraid.”

“Old ways?” said Hannah, who was leaning against the register with her coat already on. “You’re like, twenty five.”

Maglor opened his eyes, and raised one brow. He had seen her, briefly, around town, but only really knew her in the advent of Loki’s employment alongside her. Her mother was the principal of the local high school, he knew, and frequented the town hall meetings alongside his landlady. “If you say so,” He said to her. “But I feel twenty five thousand. You had better have saved me some coffee.”

“It’s still on the burner, back in the office.” Loki said, and gestured vaguely toward the door in the back. Maglor waved in thanks before obeying its siren call. His clothing made an uncomfortable squelching noise as he walked, waterlogged fabric clinging to his skin and moisture pooling in his shoes.

At the back of the store, a customer still lingered, leaning against the frame of the bookshelf and peering at him over the spine of a thick tome. Maglor waved halfheartedly in his direction before slipping into the back office. He probably wasn’t really permitted access, but Mrs. Tate was friendly enough, and neither Loki nor Hannah were the type to tell tales.

The coffee, as promised, was waiting in the pot. Set prominently beside it was a stack of paper travel mugs, along with sleeves and plastic lids. He let the door click shut behind him and immediately set about pouring himself a mug. Once he snapped the lid on, he took a deep draught, relishing the way it scalded all the way down. It was swill, of course, made extra strong with decent quality beans to compensate for laughable implements, but the quality didn’t stop him from draining half a cup and then finishing off the pot.

When he finally emerged, Loki was standing by the office door, talking to the gentleman in the stacks. “I’m sorry, sir,” he was saying, affecting a submissive posture and gesturing with open palms. “But I want to walk my co-worker home while it’s still safe to do so. I’m sure you understand.”

The man grinned apologetically, and it made deep, practiced creases in his cheeks. “Of course, not at all,” he said. “This is a lovely shop, though.” He punctuated this comment by craning his neck to glance around. “I’m sure I could spend all day here, even without the rain.”

Loki threw an arm out wide, indicating to lead him to the register. “And we would welcome you back any time. At least, when I’m not concerned about strong winds casting teenagers out into the sea.”

The man followed Loki to the register obligingly. He snapped the biography shut and held it at his side. “I’ll have to make the most of it, then, while I have the chance. I’m here on business.”

“Not a very good time for it,” said Maglor, looking pointedly out the window. “It’s a shame you couldn’t spend a nicer week. It really can be quite lovely.”

“I’m sure it can.”

They arrived at the register. Loki quickly rang him up and bagged the book, and the man handed over a twenty. “Keep the change,” he said. “It’s coming out of an expense account anyway.”

Loki smiled politely as the customer retreated. He ducked out the door and dashed over to a black Acura parallel parked across the street. After the man disappeared, Maglor turned back to Loki, who was waiting expectantly. He had retrieved his green hoodie already and put it on. “Ready to go?” he said, jingling the shop keys.

“Yes, please,” said Hannah, who was back to sitting at table by the window. She stood up and slung a purse over her shoulder. Maglor obliged by retrieving his own knapsack and swinging it onto his back. He tilted his head back and gulped down the rest of his coffee, and then threw the empty cup at Loki, who caught it deftly.

“What am I, your servant?” he snarked, but tossed it into the bin underneath the counter anyway as he passed. Maglor grinned brightly in response. He hitched his hood up and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, go on, then. I have to lock up.”

Hannah pushed her way out first, looking dejected. Like Loki, she had pulled a hood over her head, and her hair had been deftly tucked inside of it. Maglor followed her. He had no rain accoutrements, just his tee shirt and indomitable spirit. Loki did something to a panel by the door and then slipped out after them, pausing to bolt the door.

Almost as soon as he did, the wind kicked up again, moaning and grasping at their ankles with long fingers. Maglor frowned and picked up the pace. “Loki,” he called over his shoulder, “do you think that…” But it was no use. Between the beating of the rain and the voice on the wind, conversation was next to impossible. Instead, he reached out for Hannah, who was smaller than either of them and seemed to be flagging, and put a steadying arm around her shoulders.

Most of the shops seemed to have closed early; all around them, doors were locked and windows dim. The only signs of life were the yellow windows of a diner, and the occasional commuter driving past. The shop was located on one of the main roads through town, only two blocks or so from the shore, but even so Maglor could hear the pounding surf against the dwindling sand, clapping violently against the dock.

Hannah leaned into his arm and glanced up apologetically. “Should we have boarded up, you think?” She nearly had to shout over the din.

Maglor made a show of glancing up at the sky. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he said, wincing as he felt his black hair whip out behind him. “It’s a bit early in the year yet.”

Hannah frowned. “Global warming,” she said with a tone of misplaced expertise. “We talked about it in science, you know. It changes the weather patterns.”

“Does it?” Maglor raised an eyebrow and barely suppressed a smirk. “I’ve never been a scientist, myself.”

“I’m not either,” she admitted. “But enviro is pretty cool.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Loki, who had gotten a bit ahead of them, hung back until they caught up, and then moved to provide a wind buffer on Hannah’s other side. “I hope your mother doesn’t mind if we wait until a bit of this calms down,” he said.

“She’ll invite you for dinner,” said Hannah.

“I think we can suffer through it.” He grinned wryly at Maglor, baring sharp teeth. “Maybe she will make your kale.”

Maglor rolled his eyes. Then Loki led them around the next corner, and conversation stopped until they had reached shelter.


	7. Hannah's House (Watchers II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Loki see Hannah home, and are invited to dinner with the White family while they wait out the storm.

Hannah’s house was about halfway down Madison Street heading away from the shore. Unlike most of the area, which was characterized mostly by sand and a few hardy shrubs, the homes on this street maintained a green lawn and a few spindly trees for shade. The Whites were no different. They also had a paved driveway and a broad porch, as well as a garden. Though, admittedly, thought Maglor, the garden wouldn’t last long if this weather kept up. Already the bushes had lost foliage and constitution.

She broke away from them as they approached the door, fishing a key ring out of her coat pocket and fumbling with the lock. He and Loki hung back awkwardly, Maglor with half an eye on Loki’s young coworker, and half on Loki himself. Behind them, the stone groaned on, voice full of agony as the mountains of old, before they went crashing into the sea. Loki himself seemed aware of this; he kept craning his neck to look behind, gaze flicking from the yard to either end of the street, brow furrowed in question.

“It seems you have brought a storm with you, my friend,” Maglor tried lightly. “This is hardly the season for hurricanes.”

“This is not a hurricane,” said Loki, failing utterly to respond to teasing. “The wind, the clouds…” He waved vaguely, seemingly short of adequate phrasing. The wind whipped his hair. “It’s something else,” he finished lamely. “At least, I think it is.”

“The girl says it is global warming.”

“It is something, all right.” Loki shrugged. “Thor would have known. Storms were a particular talent of his.”

“Were?”

“Are,” he admitted reticently. “But it is no longer of particular relevance to me.” He crossed his arms across his chest.

“For the moment,” said Maglor, almost too quietly for his friend to hear. Loki did not respond to it, at any rate.

Suddenly, Hannah rapped loudly on the door frame. Maglor spun around. She was already inside, leaning out the open door and glaring at them. “Hello? Are you gonna come in, or not?”

Maglor pasted on a genial smile. “Of course,” he said. He braced a firm hand on Loki’s shoulder and steered him around toward the door. He leaned in and said more quietly, “Forget about it for now.”

“Of course.” Loki obediently turned to enter. Once he was inside, he immediately began divesting himself of his wet hoodie and toed out of his shoes. He left them behind against the wall, and slung the hoodie over his forearm.

“Let me take that from you.” A woman—Mrs. White, recalled Maglor—appeared in the foyer. She had light brown hair and a nose and jaw like Hannah’s. She reached out to Loki and claimed his hoodie. “I’ll just throw it in the dryer. There are hairbrushes in the powder room in the hall, if you like.”

“Of course,” said Loki, smiling politely. “And thank you.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” offered Maglor.

“Thank you for seeing Hannah home,” she returned, waving him off. “You’re staying for dinner, of course. Food allergies?”

Hannah raised an eyebrow. “Told you.”

“None,” said Loki. “Though Maglor does have a knapsack full of greens, if you require a contribution.”

“I couldn’t,” said Mrs. White.

Maglor shrugged, proffering the knapsack. “They were going to be thrown out anyway; you really might as well, unless you dislike kale.”

She smiled. “I’ll just throw it in the soup, then.” She took the bag and threw the hoodie at Hannah. “Throw this in the dryer, please. And call your father. Tell him not to pick you up.”

Both Whites disappeared into the house, leaving Loki and Maglor standing by the door.

“Well that’s that, I suppose.” Loki smirked. “She certainly is efficient.”

“She is at that. Reminds me a bit of Artanis, actually. I suppose I should be glad she was born in a better age.”

“Better…” Loki agreed. He shook his head and started down the hall toward the powder room. “Less bloody, at least. On this planet, anyway.”

“Well, yes. Plus, Artanis never ran a school of mortal children.”

Loki laughed as he pushed through the powder room door, and in the tiny room it echoed and magnified. On the counter, a wooden basket contained a hairbrush and a comb. Loki claimed the former and reached for the back of his hair. “I wouldn’t want to attend that school.”

“Nor I!” He plucked the instrument out of Loki’s hand. “Here, let me. It will be faster.” Loki agreed silently and closed his eyes, allowing Maglor to work the tangles out of his damp hair. Once he was finished, he ran it over his scalp an extra few times before returning the brush. Loki, for his part, moved behind him to return the favor.

“Goodness, you have a lot of hair,” he groused. He gathered a handful of it in one fist, hopelessly knotted from the storm, and began working at it from the ends up.

“Yes, well,” said Maglor, “that was the fashion, in the old days. One petty thing I have never been able to give up.”

Loki didn’t respond to that. He dropped the section he was working on and gathered a new one, attacking the ends carefully. After a moment or two of silence, with his attention carefully on his task he said, “While we are alone… what say you about the storm outside?”

Maglor considered. From the tiny powder room and with the noise from the kitchen, he could barely hear the din, though he could feel its oppressive weight. “I think… it is peculiar,” he said at length. “Though I am not sure why.”

“I am uneasy,” he admitted. “But it is no matter. Here, I think I am nearly finished.” Sure enough, the bristles moved easily enough from his scalp along the length of his hair. He kept combing anyway, almost meditative in the repetition, and Maglor allowed it. On the other side of the door, he could hear dishes clattering, a door slamming shut and muffled conversation.

“I suppose that is Mr. White,” he said. “Have you met him?”

Loki pulled away and returned the brush to its basket. “No, only Hannah and her mother. Though I suppose we should go amend that.”

“That would be wise,” he agreed, slipping out the door, Loki close behind him. His friend flipped the lights off and shut the door with a snap, and together they continued along the hall until it opened up into a wide kitchen.

Mr. White had indeed arrived. He was standing by the counter in a dripping windbreaker, framed by a wide picture, whose curtains were open to a small backyard. When they entered the kitchen, he turned and exclaimed, “We have guests tonight!” sounding thoroughly unsurprised.

“And we thank you for your hospitality,” said Maglor. “Loki and I are rather hoping the storm lets up before we go.”

Mr. White snorted. “Good luck with that. I’ll drive you. I have an SUV.” He leaned forward and stuck his hand out, business-like. “I’m Richard White. Rick. It’s good to finally meet both of you.”

“Of course,” said Loki, shaking his hand. “But you don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to walk her home. It’s the least I can do.” He slid out of his wet jacket and tossed it haphazardly on a chair. “Seriously.”

Mrs. White appeared behind her husband. She seemed to Maglor to have a preternatural ability for stealth. She put her hand on Rick’s shoulder. “Don’t bother arguing,” she said. “Now, I’ve set us all up in the dining room, in case we lose power. So why don’t we continue talking over dinner. Your daughter is already waiting.”

Hannah chimed in loudly from the next room. “Yeah, daddy, I’m starving, come on!”

Her parents laughed and exited to the dining room. Maglor moved to follow them, but Loki remained still, fixated on the window. Frowning, he prodded him in the shoulder. “Come on. Didn’t you hear them?”

“Yes, of course. It’s just, I could have sworn…” he trailed off, and shook his head. “Nevermind. It’s nothing. Let’s go.” And with that, he stepped around him and into the next room, leaving Maglor behind to watch storm winds blow sand and detritus across the disheveled yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my update schedule! And I'm sorry, but it's going to stay broken. Between my Literature Seminar this semester, and the fact that at this point the university has closed as many weeks as they have held classes, I have a lot on my plate. (Damn you, snow!) Part of the reason for the long delay was that my posting has nearly caught up with what I have written, and I had hoped to be able to finish the story before I continued. Since that isn't looking promising in the near future, I'm moving to a more sporadic schedule, posting only as I finish another chapter. So if you haven't subscribed yet, I recommend doing so.
> 
> Also, I may or may not have started poking at a new Silmarillion genfic, set well after the main LotR trilogy and starring the brothers Feanorion, tentatively titled A Quiet Life. The first chapter is due to be posted soon, if you have any interest in that.
> 
> I suppose now is as good a time as any to clarify my headcanon on the matter of immortality. According the comics and mythology canon, Idunn's apples are necessary for the Aesir to retain immortality, and without it they age and die. Also, in Thor 2, Odin makes a comment about their relative mortality. HOWEVER, it seems highly unlikely that the Jotun would have access to the apples, and they are clearly still hanging around and don't seem particularly decrepit. One fic I read, I don't remember which, now, explained it so that Aesir are not naturally immortal, but the apples grant it to them artificially, whereas some of the other races are truly immortal, in the sense that they will not die of age or infirmity. This is what I'm going with. Loki, with or without the apples, is effectively immortal. The apples themselves have magically restorative properties, to speed healing and recovery for a certain amount of time, rendering mortal beings immortal if eaten regularly enough so that the effects never fade. 
> 
> This puts Asgard's insistence on subjugating the other realms in an interesting light (inferiority complex?) and also is generally more convenient for this story. (For the uninitiated, in Tolkien's mythos, Elves are immortal as above (though, like Loki, they can be killed), and will naturally live as long as there is a world to live in. What's more, in theory, if they die, they will eventually come back, though this is much more complicated for Maglor. The point is that he's not going to get old and die, so it's easier to have Loki in the same boat.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for coming back after a million years! I hope I won't keep you waiting so long next time.


	8. Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather continues to decline. The news says nobody can explain it. Loki and Maglor both say "magic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone new who reviewed and left kudos! It's encouraging that people other than myself are interested... I don't know when I'll post the next chapter. It's nearly finished, but I am currently working on my senior seminar project for my literature major, and studying for certification exams, so no guarantees. Also, a reminder: I'm also posting a long Silmarillion "epilogue" fic set after the end of LotR, which some of you may be interested in.
> 
> Due to time considerations, this chapter only received the barest of revisions. It should be passable, but if it's not, I'll touch it up later.

They ultimately took Rick White up on his offer to drive them home. The wind at that point was blowing so hard that the pellets of rain, after bursting against the concrete, curled back up into the air as mist, and neither wind nor rain showed sign of letting up. Not to mention the White residence was clear across town from their destination. Rick drove slowly and silently, his fog lights doing little for visibility and the weight of the vehicle only just saving them from skidding across the water.

“So you live together?” he said as if he did not already know. His eyes never left the road.

“Yes,” said Loki. “I found myself in need of a place to stay, and Maglor kindly took me in.”

“Is that right?”

Maglor was frowning, but he answered genially enough. “It is. Though it’s nice to have company for a change.”

“You’re up at Mrs. Li’s property still?”

“That’s right,” said Maglor. “Which reminds me, you still have to meet her and add yourself to the lease. Officially.”

Loki made a faint affirmative noise, and then turned his attention to the black windows. He spent the rest of the ride with his head resting against cold glass, watching the haze of inclement weather and encroaching night crawl past. Faintly, he could hear Maglor making polite conversation with their host, but even that faded soon. Whether it was because Rick had to concentrate on the road or because of the sleepy effect of the rain, Loki didn’t know.

The atmosphere remained much the same for the remainder of the ride, and by the time Rick pulled into the gravel driveway, the three bid their farewells distractedly, attention focused mainly on shelter and sleep.

The rickety wooden stairs leading up to the apartment groaned worryingly as they crossed, but it wasn’t long until they were both inside, door locked and amber lamplight illuminating the living room.

“Do you want tea?” said Maglor. Loki hummed an affirmative, but Maglor didn’t wait for his response to start making it. Instead, he slouched past, kicked the television on with one foot and continued on to the kitchen without stopping. Loki watched him for a few seconds, and then moved to the front window. The blinds were shut. He bent a section of them open with two fingers and peeked out, but it was no use. The light in the room made a mirror out of the glass. He let go, and the blinds clattered back together. He shoved his hand in his pocket and made for his room.

“What are you looking at?” said Maglor as he passed.

Loki didn’t answer, instead rounding the corner and pulling his door shut behind him before collapsing face first on his bed. Even now, he could feel the storm playing at his hair follicles, skittering along nerve endings, and an itching feeling all around him like he was an experimental sample under glass.

He was uneasy.

 _You’re being an idiot,_ he said to himself. _You may be temporarily weakened, but you’re not stupid._

Then again… He could feel a rushing in his veins, the fury and chaos of the void that he hadn’t felt since he landed. And there was something… He shook his head and rolled over onto his back with a huff. This was ridiculous. He clearly was not himself, hadn’t been since he arrived here. He was too docile, too accepting, and his thoughts were scattered and half mad. He wondered if he hadn’t been rewritten, down to the last molecule, during his journey.

He sat up and pulled his sweatshirt and tee off over his head in one motion. They were still damp, and he could feel the residue on his skin, cold against the air. His jeans were worse. He stood and kicked them off and replaced his garments with a sleeping shirt and flannel trousers.

By the time he emerged, a steaming mug was waiting for him on the counter, and Maglor was on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, nursing a mug of his own and watching the news. He retrieved his tea, and then carefully lowered himself onto the sofa beside him. For a long time, they were silent, and the white noise of the newscast washed over him like surf. Outside, lightning flickered.

On the television, a man in a blue windbreaker was standing outside shouting into a microphone, harsh light illuminating the torrents of rain. At the bottom of the screen scrolled admonitions to remain indoors and at home. The storm that sat on their heads, said the newscaster, was inexplicable, and furious, and it showed no signs of moving on.

“State of emergency,” said Maglor. “It’s not a hurricane.”

“No,” he agreed. “But we knew that already.” He leaned back into the couch and took a long, slow sip from his mug. Then he sat up, snatched the remote and turned the television off. “Maglor,” he said seriously. “Does this seem… peculiar, to you?”

Maglor closed his eyes and tilted his pointed chin up, listening. As if on cue, the wind groaned anew. “Yes,” he said at length. “It does. I have not seen a storm like this since the old days. If I did not know better, I would say that it were sorcery.”

“Yes,” said Loki pointedly. “As would I.”

Maglor sat up, and in one graceful movement, placed his mug down on the table, turned to face Loki, and tucked his feet under him. His fey eyes shone in the dim light like a cat’s. “Loki,” he said. “What were you looking at, in the Whites’ backyard, and through the blinds?”

Loki considered. “I’m not sure. I have felt these past few days like I was being watched. And for a moment, in the garden…”

Wind rushed against the windows, whistling at unsealed joints. “It is true that ever since this storm began in earnest I have felt a certain attention bearing down upon me. I had thought it a flight of fancy. You do remind me of quite a lot of things I thought I had nearly forgotten.”

He studied his tea for a moment, and then tilted his head back and drained the mug before returning it to the table. It scalded on the way down. “The magic, you mean.”

“Well, yes.”

Loki drew a breath, his expression hesitant. “That is because I am jotun, I think,” he said eventually. When Maglor did not react outwardly, he clarified. “Elemental. Ever have the jotun been tied to the more visceral magics, and where they move, so it does.”

Thunder again. The lights flickered ominously. “So your presence brought magic back to this realm? And that is the storm?” Maglor’s voice was bright, and agonizingly hopeful.

“Well, no,” Loki admitted. “It didn’t go anywhere. So long as there is potential for life, there it is. But one person is hardly enough to wake an entire realm that has spent thousands of years veritably comatose. Still, I am here and have an affinity for it, so some amount of activity is to be expected.” He grinned wryly and waved vaguely toward the window and the howling storm beyond. “But this is a bit much.”

“Quite,” said Maglor sardonically. “But until we can identify this watcher…” He trailed off.

Loki sighed, and took a long, deep swig from his mug. When he finished, he cradled it in both hands, leaned down over both knees, and stared into his distorted reflection. “Do you think that they will evacuate the town?”

The walls groaned.

“It is difficult to say,” said Maglor slowly. “They have weathered their share of storms, but this is rather unusual.”

“I would hate for the whole town to wash away just because I brought something through the void,” said Loki, tone deceptively light.

Maglor frowned. He moved his feet from the table to the ground and leaned forward studiously, absently tucking his hair behind one pointed ear. “I thought you said that it wasn’t because of you?”

Loki glanced up to Maglor’s face, and then back down again. “It’s not,” he tried, and then broke off. “I’m not sure…” He pressed his lips together, and then leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. A long pause drifted between them, broken only by the din of the storm outside. Finally, Loki looked back over to him, thin lips tilted in a heavy smile. “I suppose… it is difficult to say.” He stood, drained the last of his tea, and then reached over to collect Maglor’s empty mug.

Maglor handed it to him, frowning studiously. Loki ignored the way his attention itched between his shoulders as he moved away. He flipped up the small lever for the kitchen sink to wash the cups out. The water quickly became lukewarm, and then refused to heat any further, but Loki made no issue of it, instead paying careful and obvious attention to his task. When he was finished, hands and mugs clean and soap free, he arranged them in the drying rack with a dull clatter, nodded at his roommate, and withdrew to his bedroom alone.

That night, he dreamed of a dying universe, utter silence, and a gray, gaping maw.


	9. Voluntary Evacuations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki wakes early to the fire marshal pounding on their front door. The storm hasn't let up, so the town is enacting voluntary evacuations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life remains busy. This chapter has only the most cursory of revisions. Hopefully there are no mistakes, but if there are, I'll revise as I find them.

As it turned out, the county held voluntary evacuations the following morning. 

The day had dawned but barely, sunlight insufficient behind roiling clouds and thick curtains of cold rain. It beat heavily on the roof above them, swinging in gales against the outer wall in irregular intervals. The lights flickered worryingly. Loki had been awake for a few hours now, and mostly tried to ignore it.

He had dressed comfortably, in sweat pants and a dusky gray thermal, with his hair braided lazily down his neck. He was slumped over the counter with his back to the sitting area, bare toes drawing lazy figure eights where they dangled from the counter height stool. His distorted eyeball stared back up at him, a reflection from inside a steaming mug of tea. In the kitchen, the fluorescent microwave clock blinked 88:88 in quick, staccato intervals.

He had arisen at approximately 7:30AM to blinking clocks and insistent, yet business-like pounding on their front door. Maglor, who for once had slept like the dead, did not stir, and Loki was not of a mind to wake him. So he climbed out of bed, shrugged on a tee shirt and some discarded sweat pants, and padded barefoot to answer. Outside had been who appeared to be a fire marshal, as well as some member of law enforcement, each in practical uniform and soaked to the bone.

“Can I help you?” Loki had said, after a moment.

One of the men stepped forward. “Yes, hello. You rent this property long-term from Mrs. Li downstairs?”

“That is correct. Is there a problem?”

A particularly fierce gale welled up, and the man stepped back to brace against it. “Not at all. We’re beginning voluntary storm evacuations, standard routes and procedures. You’re familiar?”

Loki shrugged. “My roommate is, I’m sure.” A blank moment followed, and Loki clarified. “I am new to the region.”

“Not a problem,” said the fire marshal. He pulled something out of his pocket. It turned out to be an informational refrigerator magnet. Loki accepted it bemusedly, slipping it into his sweatpants pocket. “Shelter for this region is at the high school same as last hurricane season. You don’t have to go, but if it becomes mandatory you do. If you need any additional information, or need help getting out, you can call the hotline on there.”

“Of course.” Loki shrugged, fisting his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and leaning one shoulder against the door frame. “Anything else?”

The officer nodded. “Just keep safe. I can trust you to help Mrs. Li get boarded up and evac’d, or do I have to send some men over?”

“We can handle it,” Loki said. The duo nodded, mumbling pleasantries as they backed away from the door. Loki watched them all the way down the stairs and up the drive before closing and bolting the door.

If it was a question of evacuating their landlady, Loki supposed he should wake Maglor to ask him what that entailed. He rarely slept, though, so Loki hesitated to do so. Instead, he ducked back into his room and snatched up a fresh outfit and made for the shower. If the running water in the pipes did not wake him, Loki would figure the Norns wanted him to get more rest.

It turned out the Norns did want. An hour and a half later found Loki, fully dressed and damp hair plaited, staring down into his tea, having grown tired of waiting and made some for himself. Distantly, he thought he could hear the shower running, though with the din of rain beating against the windows and the walls, it was rather hard to tell. Around him, the power shuddered threateningly.

Finally, the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam illuminated by sickly yellow light. Maglor stumbled out, half dazed, and threw his balled up pajamas through his bedroom door before making his way over to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said through a yawn. His hair, though neatly combed, dripped down his back and shoulders, leaving portions of his cotton shirt sodden underneath. Otherwise, he was clad in a worn pair of jeans and remained barefoot, as was often his fashion indoors. “I almost thought I wouldn’t get to finish, what with the electricity Tea?”

“There’s a pot.” Loki indicated the cast iron one on the pad by the stove. “Sleep well?”

Maglor grabbed a chipped white mug from the mug tree and filled it. “Well,” he said, curling his long hands around it and leaning forward, elbows on the counter, “it was sleep.”

“For a change,” said Loki meaningfully. Maglor did not miss his implication.

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t look Loki in the face, instead seeming intent on the curls of white steam rising from the mug. His gray eyes followed the trail toward the ceiling until it dissipated, and then returned to the source to follow another curl from birth until death. “But we don’t always need it as such.”

“Is that so.”

“Well,” said Maglor, drawing a deep sip from his mug and lingering to inhale the warmth through his nose. “Perhaps I get somewhat less than average even for my people.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Loki dryly, but he punctuated it with a flutter of polite, sunny laughter.

They fell to silence, which lingered until Loki got to the bottom of his mug, and had swished the dregs counterclockwise several times.

Eventually, he tossed his head back and drained it like a shot. “Several gentleman called this morning,” he said after righting himself. “There are county-wide voluntary evacuations. We are supposed to help Mrs. Li get to the high school.”

Maglor glanced toward the window, but the blinds were still closed. Behind it, pellets of rain buffeted the glass. “Already?” He frowned. “While I was showering?”

Loki shook his head. “While you were asleep. Quite early, actually.”

Maglor grimaced behind his tea. “Well, I suppose they have to get around to everyone.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, I could have gotten it.” 

Loki made a face and waved him off. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Maglor sighed heavily. “The evacuation facility is the high school. It’s unfortunately fairly terrible, but since we have to escort our landlady we may as well get our things together as well.”

“I suppose so,” Loki agreed. He sat up straighter, toying with the idea of relinquishing his seat. The lights flickered again, this time accompanied by the faint groan of thunder. “Though I cannot honestly say I understand it.”

“Hm?”

Loki gestured illustratively. “Well, what’s the point of evacuating if we’re not going two miles? Why not just stay here?”

Maglor laughed at that. “I believe the school is supposed to be a stronger building on somewhat higher ground, and thus easier to guarantee safety for larger numbers. Did you not have storms, where you come from?”

“Odin is quite powerful, and of course he gifted my brother with dominion over thunder, so destruction tended not to congregate over our home, no.” Loki sobered somewhat. “Besides, none in Asgard would flee something so intangible.”

“In this case, I’m inclined to agree,” Maglor said hesitantly. “This storm makes me uneasy.”

Loki nodded. “I am not sure the refuge will make a difference.”

“Not for us, at any rate.”

“Well, me.”

Maglor frowned seriously at that. “What do you mean, you?”

“Well,” Loki shrugged. “It is clearly void-related, for one. The timing and the uh…” He trailed off, and waved one hand vaguely. Maglor seemed to get the point. “ _That_ quality. It’s quite obvious.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter this instant. We still have to evacuate Mrs. Li at the very least, if not ourselves.” He paused, considering something. “Do you think we should avoid the shelter, then? If you are, as you say, the epicenter of this event.”

Loki shrugged. “I’m not sure. Probably? But it’s not terribly practical. We’re already going there. Leaving would draw attention.” There was a gust of wind, and the walls heaved a groan. Loki grimaced. “Though, there is something to be said for dealing with such problems away from our own residence.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow in commiseration. “That has its appeal, yes,” he said. “But we have obligations to our acquaintances to see to their safety. What do you say we see Mrs. Li safely there, keep up appearances, and then make a run for it? Find ourselves the root of whatever is tying this storm here, and see it dispatched?”

Loki shrugged in a bid for artful carelessness. He kept his voice steady. “There’s certainly not anyone else in town more qualified,” he said. “It may as well be us.”


End file.
